


Best Thing Around

by luninosity



Series: ...and this compromise [9]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Figging, Fluff and Smut, Library Sex, M/M, Mansion Fic, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Training, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik decides that Charles needs to train harder. This may involve telepathic shields, ginger root, D/s dynamics, and sex in front of a library window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Thing Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlady/gifts).



> Should stand alone okay if you've not read the rest of the series, I think. Three more to go, probably. :-)
> 
> For [starlady38](http://starlady38.tumblr.com/), who once said that if I ever wrote Erik/Charles figging she'd make me cookies. Your move, love. (Just teasing, you don't have to! I wanted to write it. <3 )
> 
> Title and opening lines from Green Day’s “Best Thing in Town.”

 

  
_running wild and always running free_   
_doing things that I have never seen_   
_eerie colors and all I see are sounds_   
_now I know that you’re the best thing in town_   
_best thing around_

  
Charles, sorting books in the library, turns before Erik can even open the door. He can feel that steel-ribbon mind, of course, from anywhere now; Erik doesn’t mind, though Charles suspects that Erik rather minds not minding. There’s a distinctly disgruntled edge to that comprehension.  
  
He grins, setting books down. The afternoon light pools gold and long across the worn once-plush carpet. The aged wood shelves hulk peaceably along walls. The air tastes of dust and bookbinding and anticipation, more so when Erik grins back. “Librarian practice?”  
  
“You should’ve seen me at Oxford. I was a positive demon in the stacks.” For research as well as sex; he lets Erik glimpse one or two of the wilder interludes amid the zoological studies. Erik raises eyebrows. Erik’s mind remains deliberately unruffled. Erik’s cock twitches.  
  
Charles grins again. Erik sighs. “You seem happier.” There’s half a question under the words.  
  
“I am.” Charles comes over, sleeves rolled up and waistcoat long discarded on a patient brocade chair, knowing he looks the picture of untidy scholar lost among fusty tomes, hearing Erik’s thoughts spin and throw sparks around the phrases _gorgeous like this/ dust in his hair/ my fingers in his hair/ messy and proper at once how can anyone be so/ infuriatingly beautiful the way he knows what I’m thinking…_  
  
“Yes,” Charles agrees, shamelessly eavesdropping, “I do, and I’m not, but you are free to always think of me precisely that way. Did you need something, or are you here to distract me from finishing with the contents of my personal library?” He’d amassed a decent collection throughout undergraduate and graduate years, the years in which he’d had rooms and later a flat and a space that’d been his, his and Raven’s, theirs to fill with whatever they liked and no heavy fists thumping over closed doors late at night.  
  
Erik, catching the gossamer end of that memory, also catches Charles’s hand. The ring heats enough to be perceptible around that finger. _Mine, mine to keep safe, no one will ever—not ever again, not while I’m here—_ Aloud, Erik says, “I did want to talk to you. About training.”  
  
 _Thank you,_ Charles murmurs back, and steps closer—it’s a battle, though not a difficult one, to do so in the face of those shadowed nights and the too-familiar carpet under his feet. Erik’s fingers’re powerful around his. “Training? If you’re going to tell me not to stand next to Alex when he works on his aim—”  
  
“I would, but you won’t listen.” Amusement glints around the corners of Erik’s tone like dark flint. “And you accuse me of being reckless. We can have that conversation later. I meant your training.”  
  
“Alex needs to know we trust him, and I can move quite swiftly if—what _about_ my training?”  
  
“You’re working with us all. Who’s working with you?”  
  
“…well,” Charles says, somewhat at a loss. “I’m…working with all of you, I suppose. And myself. No one else has my abilities, none of you can—can play precisely the same role I can for you and the others…I suppose one could count shielding us all from Emma Frost as training, if you’d like. I have been since she became aware of our presence.”  
  
Erik pauses, strategist’s brain interrogating this new piece of information, turning it around to inspect from all angles. “You’ve been shielding us all along.” _Charles/ are you all right/ why didn’t you say—_  
  
“I didn’t say so because she’s good but I’m better.” Arrogant but also true; he’s confident, and lets Erik feel as much. His walls, those overlapping shifting layers of shield-shapes and faded war-paint and cool opaque laboratory plastic, are strong. Frost is strong as well, the way that diamond stilettos are strong, but her range is shorter, her control less precise. He’s not worried, not at this distance; the constant upkeep’s only a minor drain on his resources, no worse than blocking out half his college dons’ hangovers after a formal evening. “So if it’s not about that, then…”  
  
“Are you _certain_ ,” Erik says, because Erik is an utter arse and knows exactly how much this will annoy him, and also because Erik’s worried for him like rocks under a stream, deep and still and cool while rippling water passes over.  
  
Charles glares halfheartedly. The sunshine plays games with the frayed spines of scattered textbooks. “Indubitably. Should I ask you that, the next time you lift a teaspoon?”  
  
“Emma Frost is a teaspoon to you.”  
  
“Well. Perhaps a kettle. I’m not complaining about the distraction, but I did want to get these organized before sundown, the light’s burnt out in here and—oh—” He ends up reeled in by long insistent arms, pinned comfortably against Erik’s lean muscles. _All right, then._  
  
“I can assist you with your light-bulb tribulations,” Erik offers, nuzzling lazily at the curve of Charles’s ear, breath warm over his left temple. This is not at all conducive to replacing the dead bulb; Charles decides he doesn’t really give a damn, and shivers as Erik’s lips wander lower.  
  
He tips his head for better access when Erik reaches his throat. Erik hums softly, satisfiedly, and touches lips over the fluttering of his pulse. _So easy for me, aren’t you? Right here, in your library, books you’re meaning to shelve, and instead you want nothing better than to get on your knees and open your mouth…_  
  
 _Yes,_ Charles whispers, ring tight on his finger, heart weightless and full of light. _Please, sir._  
  
“ _So_ easy,” Erik murmurs again, entertained, and nimble fingers untuck Charles’s shirt, tugging insistently. “I did have a plan, you understand. When I came in.”  
  
“When you what?” Charles inquires, and Erik laughs—Charles loves hearing Erik laugh exactly like this, unguarded and playful and slightly surprised and in love—and then lifts a hand and brings it down hard in one swift spank across Charles’s backside. Even through trousers, the impact stings. Charles moans, feeling his body turn to liquid gold as the pleasurable pain radiates outward.  
  
“You did want me to,” Erik says, almost not a question. Charles lets the _yes_ blossom in both their minds, scarlet and plush as a rose.  
  
“Good, then.” Erik wraps one large hand around both of Charles’s wrists. Looks at him levelly. Assuming the role. Wrapping himself in it like a cloak. Even the room hums with newfound awareness, a frisson of adrenaline and expectance. “Those curtains are open, Charles.”  
  
“Oh—” _Sorry, I can close them if—_  
  
“No. Leave them.” Erik leans in. Whispers, words like a kiss, “I did say training.” _I want to fuck you here, in your library, up against the windows, while you keep everyone from seeing. If you can._  
  
“Oh,” Charles says again, the idea and the dare immediately intoxicating, swirling like sweet vermouth in his stomach, flowing through his veins as Erik methodically peels away his clothing. Cardigan. Button-down. Trousers and boxer shorts. Even his socks, one by one. _Yes, please, Erik._  
  
Erik’s other hand cups his cheek, traces the corner of his mouth, settles under his chin, tilting it up. Erik’s thinking not in words but in quiet delighted possessive astonishment _: this yes mine he wants this/ he wants to give me this/ he knows me and he still/ I love you Charles always._  
  
 _Always,_ Charles whispers back. He’ll never cease to be honored and touched by the way that Erik never ceases to regard him with wonder. In Erik’s head, such limitless boundless trust can’t exist and if it did Erik’s bloody hands wouldn’t deserve it, except that Charles continues to give it, and Erik—in his own perceptions of self—is too selfish to not greedily devour every chance in case it’s the last.  
  
Charles could say something to the effect of _you’ve kept me safe every time so far_ , could say _I love you,_ could say _I am stronger because of you and you are stronger because of me._ He doesn’t. They both know. And over time the knowledge will sink in so deeply it’ll drown out all the doubt.  
  
“Keep your hands in place,” Erik orders, command like silk over iron; Charles trembles, and obeys.  
  
The glass of the window’s sunwarmed and clear to his touch, like liquid light. There’s no one out on the grounds at the moment, but there could be; Hank’s out running someplace, Sean’s practicing flight, and someone could stroll around the corner and glance up and see him here, spread out naked and willing against the windowpane and begging for Erik to touch him—  
  
But they won’t see. Because this is training. His.  
  
Anyone glancing up will see only the empty library window. A glint of sunlight, perhaps. Fluttering curtains.  
  
Certainly not Erik’s hand tracing its leisurely way along his spine. Certainly not Erik stepping closer and pressing lips—too rough to be a kiss, too sweet to be called a bite—to the back of his neck. Charles shivers, and his cock throbs and drips, smearing want against the glass.  
  
“A test,” Erik purrs, and there’s a rustle behind him, and a scent—spice? Pastry? Ginger?   
  
Ginger. Charles very nearly turns. His legs wobble. He does know that one. Has read about it in old books, nineteenth-century social histories. Leatherbound and heavy. Sensual.   
  
Erik can’t mean to—can’t want— “How did you even learn about this?”  
  
“I’ve read about it. I recall mentioning as much to you once.” Erik’s grin surfaces, all shark-toothed merriment. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Charles.”  
  
“I didn’t think you meant it!” Inside he’s wavering: does Erik want him to apologize for the momentary lapse? Or to be defiant? The memory’s there, a side benefit of telepathy; might not be at the forefront of his mind, but he can always find it if he looks. Unless Erik would prefer he didn’t, and play penitent for a while. He’s not opposed.  
  
Erik’s smile grows, no doubt picking this willingness up. “Nice of you to offer, but no. No pretending to be sweet and remorseful, Charles. Not you, not today.”  
  
“Then—”  
  
“Then you can simply stand there and wait for me.” Erik circles around to stand at his side. Not leaning on the window; Erik doesn’t lean casually anywhere. Erik does, however, produce a slim knife out of noplace at all and begin deliberately, slowly, lazily, carving the knobby root into a recognizable shape. Not using hands. The knife’s spinning on its own, leisurely and indulgent.  
  
Charles tracks every peel, every reveal of pale root-flesh. Every flare of Erik’s power, so monumental and vast, now devoted wholly to preparing delicious torment for him.  
  
His hands are growing sweaty, pressed to sun-spark glass, reflecting arousal. He doesn’t move them. Doesn’t move his body, flush against the window, on display. Only his head, because Erik’s not said he can’t watch.  
  
 _Lovely_ , Erik’s thinking. And: _mine_.  
  
Yes. He is. Devoutly, profoundly so. And that knowledge resonates in his bones; he gives himself over to it freely.  
  
“Hold still,” Erik murmurs, even though he’s not moved. It’s a command, in response to the minute shift in the air.   
  
_I am,_ Charles thinks back, more a swell of bright assent than articulated sarcasm. Erik laughs. And moves behind him, out of sight. Charles waits, peacefully buoyed by shared trust. His ring catches sunlight and smiles in reply around his finger.  
  
Erik’s hand is cool and slick, slipping between the curves of his arse; Erik must’ve also brought lube. Not a surprise. Erik likes to be prepared. Erik won’t hurt him. Not more than he wants to be hurt. They don't need the lube--the juices will do that, and the slickness will only dull the burn--but they've not done this before, and Erik doesn't _want_ him to be hurt, and so: Erik's overprepared. Charles smiles.  
  
Erik’s fingers tease him open, stroking and widening; Charles closes his eyes to savor the sensations of his body as Erik plays him like a harp, shimmering and clear and wild. Erik kisses his right shoulderblade, unexpectedly tender; Charles smiles, loosening even more into the touch. His shields are holding strong; that’s something Erik doesn’t understand, he thinks, about this particular exercise. The more adrift in private whirlwinds he is, the easier the tuning out of the world becomes, and that’s a two-way street. Externally directed emotions—concern about someone, exuberance, the finding of lost things—aren’t as easily controlled, but this is internal, personal to the two of them. It’ll stay that way.  
  
Of course, Erik has plans. And those plans might provide a challenge.  
  
Erik kisses the back of his neck this time, and sends a wordless brush of _ready?_ Charles acquiesces in a silent ripple of want. And Erik’s fingers nudge the root into his body, as he opens up to take it.  
  
It doesn’t hurt at first, or not more than the usual initial stretch. He’s past thinking clearly, but he does push a wave of _??_ in Erik’s direction. Erik pets his hip once, lightly, as if in preemptive apology.   
  
And then pulls a hand back and cracks it over his backside.  
  
That sting’s instant, but it’s lost in the _other_ pain, as his body inadvertently clenches and closes down on freshly peeled crackling ginger. Juices sear delicate flesh, maddening and divine; he doesn’t scream because he can’t find air, tumbling into darkly spiced depths of sensation. Erik rests the hand on the nape of his neck. Charles sobs. The tears burn too, but they feel good. Release, honest and unguarded. Collapse, even as his cock strains and drips, pressed hard into the glass.  
  
He rocks his hips mindlessly, needing more friction, needing to—not to come, Erik hasn’t said he can, but needing _more_. Erik’s kissing a line down his back now, tracing his quivering spine with lips and tongue, each lick and nibble lapping like fireworks at his nerves. He’s crying and that’s okay. It’s good. Erik’s kissing him, so it’s good.  
  
Outside the children are training and the sun is shining and the world is spinning. In the library, he can not fret over them, not hold them up, not hear them all, for now, just for now. While his body quivers and begs and surrenders, gloriously overrun.  
  
Erik puts hands on his hips. Turns him gently but inarguably, so his back’s up against the windowpane. So his burning arse might be visible for all to see, if he slips, if those shields come down. And then—  
  
And then Erik’s on his knees somehow, mouth wrapped around Charles’s cock, Charles’s whole length sinking into wet heat and the tug of Erik’s tongue—  
  
Torture, exquisite torture, sizzling radiance every time his hole tightens, plus the relentless friction of Erik’s mouth, _plus_ Erik’s standing order not to come without command; he can’t think, can’t breathe, and his knees are shaking—  
  
When he moans, it’s like the sound’s being pulled from his mouth without conscious choice. And his shields flicker under the assault, not falling but simply pushing back against the battering waves of anguish become rapture, billowing too large to easily contain.  
  
 _Charles_ , Erik thinks, name full of wonder; and then is right beside him, body flush with his, mostly dressed but trousers open obscenely in front, erection jutting out; Erik’s hand grabs Charles’s limp one and brings it to both their rigid cocks, working them together and leaving no doubt that Erik’s hand’s the one in charge. Harder, faster; and Erik shoves him back into the glass and kisses him, deep and messy and indelicate and ragged with panting breaths; Erik thinks hazily _come like this/ me all over you/ you pleading and wrecked and then you/ you can when I do_ and Charles thinks _yes yes yes—_  
  
Erik comes, heat spilling over their joined hands in a rush of lightning brilliance. Charles shudders helplessly and follows him over the edge, on command.  
  
Erik holds him there for a minute—maybe longer—in the aftermath, until Charles comes down enough to gasp and whimper and twitch in protest at the continued stimulation of the root. Most of the juices from the fresh cuts have faded, but there’s still enough to flay oversensitive nerve endings, and he’s balanced on the line between still good and too much. Erik knows—Erik’s gotten better at knowing—and eases him to the library carpet and parts the globes of his arse and slips the infuriating wonderful ginger away, tossing it someplace that seems to be atop a hand towel, evidence of that strategic planning at work again. Charles, still crying intermittently, shaken by the awesome high and the pure intensity, curls into Erik’s side physically and into Erik’s thoughts telepathically, lacing mental fingertips through Erik’s there too.  
  
 _I’ve got you,_ Erik promises. _Always, Charles. I will take care of you._  
  
He nods; Erik smiles. _And you take care of me. This—you—_  
  
Charles knows. Without words, they both know. This is Erik’s home. This is where Erik’s found someone to believe in, someone who believes in him. The best parts of each other, they are. They always will be.  
  
“So,” he rasps, voice sticky from tears, tremulous from joy, “tell me, then…was that…successful training?”  
  
Erik, lying sprawled out with him across the library floor, fully dressed but for his softening cock where it’s still lying outside his trousers, emanates satisfaction and contentment and power and protectiveness and love. “No one’s noticed, have they?”  
  
A quick check confirms—“Nothing. Some curtains in the breeze. I told you I was better than good _.” Love you, sir._  
  
 _Love you, Charles, you—_ “Well,” Erik contemplates aloud, “clearly we’ll have to do…better…with your training, more challenges, we’ll push you harder next time,” and lets Charles drape a leg over him despite all the sweat and come adorning bare skin, and they’re purely happy there together amid the antique roses of the carpet and the scent of ginger and the dry papery affection of collected tomes.


End file.
